The Worship of Walker Judson by Janice Strubbe Wittenberg

Years later, as director of The Living Light Healing Center, he meets the hunchback, Lauren Finch, and straightens her spine. Seduced by his charisma, she becomes his devout assistant, ultimately transformed into a powerful healer in her own right.

When all goes awry, even as Lauren’s faith is challenged, even as others abandon Walker, she remains steadfast. But how far is she willing to go to prove her devotion and what will it take for her to peel off the blinders to trust her own strengths?

And so, is Walker Judson truly a healer-gone-bad or a saintly soul whose paranormal talents are misunderstood?

Ultimately, you, the reader must decide.

News today is rife with stories of physical and emotional abuse on the part of Catholic priests and Buddhist monks, and also includes school teachers as well as sports coaches. Jim Jones, leader of the cult known as the People’s Temple, forced his followers to commit mass suicide. Politicians, athletes, and entertainers: Donald Trump; President Bill Clinton; Congressman Anthony Weiner; pro-golfer, Tiger Woods; and singer Michael Jackson—to name a few—violate the trust of many in the process.

Why are tales of manipulation and abuse so rampant among the powerful? Then again, why are followers so easily swayed that they cast aside common sense and discernment?

The Worship of Walker Judson explores the misuse of power and the ease with which seekers relinquish it. The role of personal choice, versus destiny, along with psychic phenomena, cultism, mystics and madmen are examined on these pages.

Targeted Age Group:: adult

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Repeatedly, I witnessed the abuse of power and became curious as to why so many followers readily relinquish their own.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
My characters are a composite of several individuals that I crossed paths with as I worked in mental health and as I learned about healers and healing. Walker Judson is loosely based on a healer whom I mistook for a saint, only to discover that he wasn't.

Book Sample
Chapter One: Walker

Years of hard-slog on foot to thank, he called himself Walker…and Judson because the saying created a most pithy tang. Walker Judson―the vibrations formed nicely in his mouth to move smoothly over tongue and lips. Walker Judson―he liked to say it. And renaming himself had been a thing of great comfort.

With no further need to walk, countryside speeding by, on this day he drove a big rig. Country-and western tunes blaring, sky dropping rain whump-shump went the windshield wipers as Walker whistled away. Yet with each passing mile, his chest crimped tighter.

Rounding a bend, spotting a seersucker-suited man in the roadway, he swerved, eased the rig on past, parked, jumped out and ran back to ask, “You OK?”

Deep inhale, then exhale, calm descending, filament-like tentacles trickled from his spine’s base. As if he’d taken root, they sunk, twisting, wending, to anchor him within the soft spongy earth.

Something primal birthed within, heat passed upward, to fill every cell and crevice of his being, but then spewed, mightily, out from his skull’s top. Overtaken by a rolling surge, breathless, amazed, Walker gazed down from above. Palms, fingertips aglow, no longer himself, but something other, he metamorphosed into ethereal mist to comprise All that Sees and Knows, All that Has Ever Been.

Shrunk to dot size, imperceptibly small, he entered the woman’s psyche to witness the crash replay itself. Rubber screeched. He felt the car flip, dive into free-fall, hit rock with an immense whump as metal crumpled.

Motes of confusion whirring about, inexplicably foreign to his usual self, he heard himself coo and burble.

Touch her head and then her heart, came the command.

His hands obeyed; her body sparked slightly.

Rush, rush. Intuiting the precise means to create a circuit, he touched the woman’s neck, arms, and chest. Hands roving, he massaged her temples, stroked her chin, brushed fingers through her hair―anything to gain purchase―to call back a life.

Long suck of air, pain―her pain―swept through to overwhelm. Yet, never had he known such joy.

##

Stink of mud swarmed round as Walker paced the hospital corridor.

Doors swung open, a doctor emerged, scruffing his chin to announce, “We’re treating the gent for a broken arm and for shock. The woman has cracked ribs. She bled so bad, the trauma alone could’ve killed her. Don’t know what to make of it; she also suffered a recent spinal fracture that seems to be on the mend. Judging from its location and severity, she should be dead, but isn’t. And”―he eyed Walker―“her companion claims you slid his ulna and radius back inside and closed up the hole with a flash of light. Likely, trauma and shock altered his mind.” The doctor paused, expectant.

“Imagine that,” Walker muttered, noncommittal.

Inwardly, however, he grinned.

Chapter Two: Young Walker

Many a time the boy spied Ma, lips moving, soundless, sniffing air as if an apron-wearing hounddog. His take, this meant she’d departed and…that she kept secrets.

Would she disappear altogether?

Often, he feared she just might.

“Does Ma plan to leave us?” he’d once asked Pa.

“Ask yer Ma,” Pa practically hollered, “see if she’ll say!”

The boy had a secret of his own―a pretty good one. He saw things invisible to others; light emanated from and surrounded folks. First time it happened, Pa caught fire.

No one else saw. Not Pa, nor Ma.

Late one night, just turned ten, he came upon his parents, faced-off in the kitchen. “You lost your mind?” Pa hissed, barely audible. “Where’d you put it, then?”
Sorrow, confusion, permeated the question.

As if blows were kisses, Ma permitted Pa’s fists to meet her face, ribs, thighs, shins and gut. Yells, silence, followed by a thud; repeatedly she fell undefended. Pa near-to killed her.

One episode, Pa smacked every tooth clean out from her head. Caved in about the cheeks and mouth, she seemed kin to a wizened apple-headed doll. Although still young, Ma wore ill-fitting dentures ever after.

Formerly ramrod straight, she grew stooped. Her hands trembled as if volts of electricity ran through them. A black eye or a gashed cheek was common. Bruises purpled her neck where Pa’s fingers indented.

Inwardly fuming at being forced to witness, he tucked away his colossal hatred of Pa and his yearning for Ma.

See, he understood enough to keep such matters hidden.

Daily, he walked off his fury and guilt for his impotence. Trudging through pastures and into ravines, he hurled vile oaths at Pa, promised to wreak vengeance, contrived diatribes and affronts, and imagined acts of extreme violence.

No violence on his part ever did transpire. Yet his heart cleaved with anguish. And his exertions allowed him to pass through days without the public humiliation of tears, howls, or vomiting.

Outwardly, he tried to help. Raucous, quick,darting movements made Ma flinch. So he spoke in low tones and moved with slow, fluid grace, careful not to bump, trip, or tumble―manners unlike lads his age. Always he came when called, did chores when bidden, and never lollygagged or sassed.

Hoping a tidy appearance might organize his inner tumult, the boy traded natty coveralls and work shirt for a moth-eaten business suit and yellowed dressshirt found in the attic. Untroubled that his limbs shot out from the cuffs several inches; by his estimation he looked downright snappy. Moreover, without the garment’s tight, press of snugness to swaddle him, he feared he might sproing apart, going every which way.

Faithfully, he wore this get-up while slopping mush for the hogs―even while chasing down calves. Hottest days, heat unbearable, he luxuriated by undoing the topmost button.

“What’s this?” Pa came along, limp-wristed, mincing steps, first time he saw the attire. “Too high and mighty for the likes of us?” Humiliation, tumbled through. Ma laid eyes on him, gargled a bit, but offered no protection.

Hugely fascinated, sight of so much praying and swaying turned the boy light-headed. Root of his tongue achy with longing, sweet plum-like tartness surged his mouth.

Cows’ warmth radiating up from below, their familiar grunts and snuffles comforted as he tried to imagine being slurped up inside Ma’s brain to have a look-see.

Ezra, a most resplendent rooster, batted wings, hopping up the ladder to root through the boy’s hair and poke his pockets for edibles. Barnyard animals as his only pals, his recent friend-making venture had sorely failed.

Hank Stedum, a grade ahead in school, possessed an
admirable talent for hawking and spitting. So the boy took up walking with a hitch and greased his hair into a perfect pompadour, same as Hank.

Except that very morning, at Bixby’s Dry Goods, Mr. Bixby slid his glasses down his nose, eyed their egg flats, and announced, “Them eggs is pretty scrawny. Eight cents or nothing.”

Anyone who cares, knows; eggs fetch a dime a dozen.

So Ma had set her jaw, crossed arms, and affixed herself, firmly, to the spot. Seemed a surety she had nothing better to do: that she’d block the register all day if she had to, as customers, begging her pardon, reached past to pay for wares.

“Chrissake, Bixby,” crabbed an old lady, “don’t be a cheapskate; pay the woman!”

“OK, OK!” Mr Bixby had counted six dimes into Ma’s outstretched palm.

No word of thanks, Ma had huffed out.

Not exactly the act of a loon!

Breezes picked up, creaking the barn. Across the way, Ma rocked some more.

Dark came early those days. Stars pocked the sky. The moon―a sliver―passed behind the trees.

Hunched to pluck burrs from his socks, shame engulfed the boy. Pa wasn’t too nice. Ma made some mysterious mistake; for this she kept paying.

Much more lurked, hidden. And, although he only grasped the tiniest speck, he too was tainted.